Learning
by Noctua-By-Night
Summary: Sometimes it's the little reminders that help us understand what's truly important.
_The characters, settings, world of Harry Potter do not belong to me. I gain nothing by writing these stories other than the pleasure of further exploring their lives and times._

Harry sat alone in the common room, an earlier issue of _The Daily Prophet_ in his lap, his cheek propped against a hand, staring into the dying fire. **HOGWARTS RE-OPENS** said the headline, with the sub-heading **"Professor McGonagall Assumes Role of Headmaster."**

He'd lost count of how many times he'd read the article, how (not unexpectedly) it focused on the aftermath of what they now called "The Great Battle" or "The Battle at Hogwarts," and practically neglected all the work that had gone into re-building the centuries-old structure in just over a year, repairing its priceless artifacts and immense accumulation of school-related stuff, its vast library, textbooks, supplies, art – the list went on and on. Worse, nothing was said about the many absent faces that should have been there at the start of term, but would never be seen at Hogwarts – or anywhere else – again.

He stood up to throw another log on the fire, having no desire to go to bed, though it was late and his first class was early. It was strange to be 19 and entering his last year with 17-year-olds. He, along with Ron and Hermione, also enrolled for their last year, could never return to the old student life such as it was before Dumbledore was killed. Too much had happened, too many things had been altered by the battle and subsequent defeat of Voldemort. So much upheaval in the Ministry, such a recruiting of Auror trainees to rebuild that sadly depleted department, disruption everywhere in wizarding society in the aftermath of the reign of Voldemort and his Death Eaters.

Though the protective charms had been re-established around the perimeter of the school – and strengthened even more – many students who had survived the battle were kept home nevertheless, due to the bands of ex-Death Eaters who, in small, muggle-like gangs, still wreaked havoc here and there, paying off old rivalries, indulging in greed, and just making life miserable for an already distressed society. Wizards like Percy Weasley and his father, Arthur, were heavily engaged under the supervision of the Minister of Magic, Kingsley Shacklebolt, in simultaneously trying to round up these gang members and minimize the damage whenever possible.

Harry longed to join in this endeavor, but despite their experience, he and Ron both were still required to finish school and take on the training of an Auror. The encouraging news was that, provided they did well this term, he and Ron would qualify for a shortened training period, a newly-devised program headed up by Shacklebolt and quickly implemented by Percy himself: two years instead of four for any course-qualified, battle veteran graduate of Hogwarts.

So the term had started, the classes begun. It was gratifying, though strange, to be treated as an adult in those classrooms, both students and teachers having fought together to save Hogwarts, having lost family members and friends, having changed so quickly in those last, dark hours before Voldemort was no more. It was even more strange not having anything to worry about except attending classes and finishing homework.

Perhaps the strangest change of all at Hogwarts, however, was the absence of the resident ghosts. They were simply gone. Whether they were still there or in the grounds, no one knew, because they had not been seen since the day all remaining students and teachers left the school, not to return for over a year. And when they did, the ghosts were conspicuously absent, and so far had not made a re-appearance. Secretly, Harry hoped they had resolved their issues and broken whatever ties had held them here.

Harry jerked, his head having fallen forward, and saw that the new log was now glowing embers and the room was growing chilly. The gong in the clock tower struck a slow, ponderous 'three' as he stood and stretched, but as he turned toward the staircase a small noise in the corner brought him back around, crouching, wand out.

Then, quietly and without seeming to notice the young wizard, a house-elf made its way around the room, dusting furniture and spiriting away bits of candy wrappers and other flotsam, humming softly. Harry, feeling slightly silly, put his wand away and once more started for the stairs.

"Why, it's Harry Potter, come back to us!"

Harry turned once more and the elf moved into the barely brighter light of the dying fire. Dressed in the standard tea-towel uniform with a large 'H' embroidered on the shoulder, this elf seemed like any other except for the tartan hat perched over one floppy ear.

"Winky?"

"It is, sir! You has remembered poor Winky, sir! I is wondering how Harry Potter is doing, and here he is!" The tiny elf delivered a graceful curtsey, her nose almost touching the floor.

"It's wonderful to see you, too, Winky. You're looking – well, you look spectacular! And you're working at Hogwarts now. Are you – erm, I mean, do you like. . ." Harry wasn't sure what to say or how to approach Winky's obvious change from the blubbering, butterbeer-swilling mess she was after Crouch had given her clothes.

"I is happy, sir. Happy to have work again, a home again." She paused, blinking, and twisted her dust-cloth in her miniscule fingers. "I – I is doing this because he is showing me, sir."

"Who, Winky? Showing you what?"

"Showing me I is not at fault for what happened, that I – that Winky – is worth something."

Harry waited, guessing what Winky was trying to say, realizing she needed to say it herself.

"Dobby tried to show Winky, sir, years ago, but Winky wouldn't listen. Winky was a bad elf, sir, but not because Master Crouch was a bad wizard and is running away. Winky was bad because she is not understanding Dobby, sir. Is not _wanting_ to understand.

"But when Winky heard of Dobby's great sacrifice, that Dobby is saving Harry Potter, is saving Harry Potter's friends, Winky knew. . ."

Two great tears welled in her eyes and she caught them with her dustcloth, blinking rapidly.

"I is not crying for my old home now, Harry Potter," she said, smiling through her tears. "I is crying happy tears, because I is learning from Dobby." She took a deep breath and drew herself up.

"I is crying happy tears because Winky is getting paid for her work at Hogwarts. I is crying because Winky – is a free elf."

 **/|\**

As Harry dressed for bed, his mind turned to Dobby, of his asking him to promise never to try to save him again, and of the elf's pulling him and the others out of the claws of Voldemort, forfeiting his life to do it. He thought of the shore where he'd held Dobby as he died, of the little grave in the dunes above, and then the floodgates of memories over the last eight years opened, overwhelming him with poignant, tearing emotions. Impossible to sleep now, he crouched beside the tower window, arms encircling his knees, and waited for the dawn.

Finally, as red streaks formed along the horizon and his roommates began to stir in their beds, he felt composed enough to carry on with the day. One lost night's sleep wouldn't hurt him, not just this once.

But as he and the others dressed and went down the hallways and stairs toward the Great Hall for breakfast, Harry realized that Winky had brought into focus what he already knew but hadn't been ready to admit. . .

It would take years – perhaps a lifetime – to sort through all the memories and emotions he had pushed down – so very deep – since the day he learned his parents had been killed by an evil wizard called Voldemort.

But as he listened to the chatter between his two best friends as they took their places at the last Gryffindor table, he also realized – gratefully – that he would not have to do it alone.

 _Fin_


End file.
